


Chosen and Denied

by saishosystem



Category: Dark Souls I, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, But MC is female in the beginning, Crossover, Curses, F/F, F/M, Genderfluid Reader, I promise that'll make sense in a little bit, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, Transgender Reader - Freeform, Undead Reader, headcanons, like Odin for Gwyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2020-11-28 19:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20971682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saishosystem/pseuds/saishosystem
Summary: You've been arrested and shipped off to where all others who share the curse of undying await the end of the world, though without purpose, near all who are sentenced to the prison fall into madness before losing themselves.  Luckily for you, you've held out just long enough, and are sane enough to accept your freedom.Luckily for another, you're naive enough to let yourself be given a purpose.(( This fic obviously takes place in the universe of Dark Souls I,butit doesn't rely so heavily on the lore that you'd miss out if you're not familiar with the game.  Feel free to ignore name drops from the game.  It's just a setting and some plot points that'll be explained anyway. ))





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MC escapes with the help of a new friend.

_"You don't join the academy because you're inept, yet you're going to lose to me because you're inept regardless... Is that all?"_

_"Of course not," you scoffed before a grin split your face. With a flourish of your wrist, you conjured a thin column of flame in your right hand. The grin subsided to a smirk as you brandished it as you would a staff, but not without a wince._

When you open your eyes, there's no reassuring warmth in your palm. All you feel is the cold, moist stone floor against your cheek. It's dark, the only light trickling in from a distant source down the hallway, through the little barred window in your cell door. Still lying on the ground, you lazily lift a hand and close your eyes, relaxing more than concentrating. 

At the feel of the fleeting tease of heat, you focus on taking slow breaths while slowly shifting to sit upright. More heat dances across your palm like droplets, and you add your other hand to cradle it. Some mix of pride and hope and wonder swells in you when you sense faint light on the other side of your eyelids, but before you have time to open them, a familiar pain surges from somewhere inside your chest and the light fades. A pain akin to starvation racks your entire body, and you settle back into fetal position on the ground, the cold of the bricks only mocking you rather than providing relief.

Days pass, all the same. You must've developed some routine by now, but with no sunlight— not even interaction with the guards in this prison— you have no way of telling time. It could've been weeks or months. The world might end tomorrow or a decade from now. 

But you're staying right here, without the privilege of actual starvation to put you down. Though your stomach devouring itself would hurt, the curse won't allow you to appreciate death until you forget that you're living.

By the time he arrives, you're in your usual position laying on the floor. His torchlight blinds you even before he unlocks your cell door and swings it open, but you welcome the pulsing pain behind your eyes and gaze at the flame and its brilliance— its life. You turn your attention to other lights in your peripheral vision, reflections of that beautiful blaze flickering against the exposed sections of his armor. The man's face is hidden inside of a helmet, but judging by the intricate design on the coat over his mail, he's too important to be a guard. A knight, maybe. 

You sit up on your knees and attempt to make eye contact with him, even if you can't see into the slits of his helmet. The two of you stare for a few seconds, then he speaks. You flinch at the sound, having not heard another voice— even your own— for so long.

"Do you want to come out?"

Apprehensively, you nod twice and try to push yourself to your feet, but immediately lean towards him, bracing yourself against the wall next to the door. You look to him pleadingly, worrying that he'll be irritated by your weakness. _Just give me a chance._

"Hold this," he eventually says, passing the torch to you. You clutch it in both hands, your arms trembling. The flame is a foot from your face, and you relish the heat lapping at your cheeks. He then slings the arm that was holding the torch around you, supporting you. It's then you notice the straightsword in his other hand. "I'll try not to strain you, but we do need to hurry, alright? I'm sure wardens will be on us soon."

You try to speak, but still fail to force words from your throat, so you only shake your head as much as leaning against him will allow. _There's no one here,_ you want to say. _Only time._

"I'll protect you." His smile is nearly audible. "There are a few halls before I can show you the sun. I'm sure you must've thought you'd never see it again. Perish the thought." The rambling of the man is nearly as welcome as the light he brought. You didn't think it possible to crave thoughts that weren't your own. "... my manners?"

The two of you slow your walking, only a little ways down the corridor from your cell. He turns to you partially. "I am Oscar... of Astora," he clarifies, then returns to looking straight ahead. Nearing the first turn, he lets out a dry laugh.

"How confident do you suppose you'd be with stairs?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you don't know who Oscar is in the game, no sweat! Neither does MC.
> 
> A side note though: I'm not _planning_ on using y/n, h/c, e/c, or anything else reader-insert-esque aside from 2nd person pov. I **will** use gendered pronouns, but only as the story calls for it because I'll be using gender-neutral pronouns, too. It makes sense in my head. It won't be pivotal to the plot though, it's just for character sake. I promise it'll make more sense down the road.


	2. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MC appreciates Oscar's company. He's looking for someone in particular, but is happy to let MC tag along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying my hand at HTML linking. Let me know if any weird thing I try to do actually doesn't work.

"I thought I thoroughly searched this part of the Asylum— watch out now— but do you know if there were any others like you?"

You step over the loose brick Oscar had pointed to and frown. "What do you mean?" Your voice is still hoarse, but it no longer hurts to speak. "Like me?"

"Yes, like you," Oscar turns and gestures to your [attire](https://i.imgur.com/NpgJ0zE.jpg). You glance down at the frayed grey cloak pulled over a long-sleeved black tunic. The criss-crossing pattern down the middle of the shirt hidden as the cloak obscured your chest and half your waist. The accompanying skirt was tattered, ending about a foot higher than it should have, revealing the black leggings and boots you wear underneath.

"Caryll?" The false name startles you as his voice pulls you from your self-inspection. "Another sorcerer would be mighty useful, don't you think?"

"You assume I'm magically inclined?"

"I— Well, no... Yes, I did, but I understand that—"

"I am."

His shoulders slump as he relaxes and sighs. "Then are there more 'magically inclined' folk here?"

You look out over the asylum. "There's one building we've yet to search. I haven't heard anything of other prisoners, but if you haven't found the person you're looking for, they must be inside." You pause and attempt to make eye contact through his helmet again, "Granted you know that they're here to begin with."

"I do know they're here!" He huffs, exasperated, and resumes walking along the roof. You follow close behind and hear him mutter something else, but can't make out what.

The two of you continue your trek across the rooftops of the Asylum, and while you don't appreciate the vertigo, you know that this is the most straightforward way to navigate between buildings. Had you somehow escaped your cell without Oscar's help, you would have been just as trapped within the winding corridors of the prison.

The building you're approaching is more spacious than the cramped and condensed ones before it. You thought you'd spotted a large hole in the roof a few minutes ago, but are now realizing it to be a courtyard of sorts. In the middle is what appears to be a campfire. When you point it out to Oscar, he seems elated.

"Here," he hands you a green-tinted bottle. The glass is thick, and were it not translucent, you might assume the flask was carved from stone. "We needn't be so conservative now. Have the rest."

"What is it?" You open it and peer inside at the glowing liquid.

"Estus. You've never tasted it?" You shake your head and he laughs. "Try. It's good for anything short of poison."

"I'm not injured," you furrow your brow. "I don't want to waste—"

"Every stranger is injured in some way. Have the rest," he repeats. "Go on."

Licking your lips, you tentatively lift the flask to your mouth. The bright contents move with the fluidity of water, though you imagined it to be more viscous. It's cold and refreshing— and surprisingly delicious. For a moment, several different citrus fruits come to mind, but you can't place the exact flavor. The chill melts in your throat, and you feel a reassuring warmth spread through your chest. The empty ache that tortured you in your cell fades, replaced by a wholeness you'd missed for quite some time. You're somewhat disappointed that there was only enough for a mouthful, but the feeling quickly subsides.

"Thank you," you breathe, passing the empty bottle to him.

Oscar goes to take it, but nearly drops it when he notices your hand. Before he can ask whatever question he planned on asking, you notice as well, eyes widening and heart pounding. You will the warmth in your chest to move, and feel a stream of it flow to your shoulder and down the length of your arm. It pools in your palm, and a small orb of fire manifests in your grasp. The pain from your previous attempt is nonexistent.

"Not a sorcerer, then," he says softly. "But definitely 'magically inclined.'"

You grin, ecstatic. _My pyromancy's returned._

There's a renewed spring to your step while you trail behind Oscar, and his mood seems to have brightened, too. Eventually though, the merriment dulls, and your armored companion seems put off by something.

"Is something wrong?" you ask. "Are you alright?"

"Hm? Yes, everything's quite alright." A smile returns to his voice, but you doubt it's genuine. "I'm simply reflecting."

You open your mouth to ask him to elaborate, but he puts his arm out, and you stop before you walk into it.

"There," he says. "Do you see it?"

You're standing atop the roof of one of the sides of the courtyard you'd spotted earlier. The campfire— or _bonfire_ as he so adamantly corrected earlier— is a stone's throw away. Across from the two of you is a tall cathedral-like building, its face making up the opposite wall of the yard. On its face, however, is a large window. And through that window, is the source of Oscar's sudden anxiety.

Looking up through the window, there's a clear view at what should be the ceiling of the large structure, except there's an apparent lack of ceiling there. From where you stand, the window aligns with a gaping hole in the brick ceiling, and the massive creature standing on the top of the cathedral. You can't see the monster's face, but the mace-like weapon the thing clutches in its hands is very visible.

You hear Oscar shift where he's standing, and look to see him gripping the hilt of his sword. "Caryll," he speaks lowly. The grim tone he takes on is foreign to his demeanor in the few hours you've known him. "We need to move."

He grabs your arm and begins leading you to a much smaller hole several yards away. You dread descending a staircase into more confining walls, but when you spare a glance at where the demon stood and see that it's no longer there, you hurry to match Oscar's pace. The bricks here are cracked, and many slip out from under your feet. You're moving too slow. The creature is steadily advancing, and you swear you could feel the mortar tremble under its footsteps. You wonder with morbid curiosity how often the monstrous demon of a warden paces these rooftops.

By the time you reach the hole, the creature isn't far behind. To your horror, the hole doesn't lead to a staircase. Looking down, you see it only leads into another cell, much like yours. Oscar realizes as well, and presses something against your chest before taking his shield off of his back. You clutch whatever it was he gave you tightly, and with your free hand, you produce a much larger ball of fire than before, turning to face the demon with him. It's easily around twenty feet tall. _Maybe even taller_, you think, realizing it's hunched over as it lumbers towards you. The next moments happen in quick succession.

Something rams into you from the side, and you plummet through the hole onto the floor of the cell below. The impact knocks the wind out of you. Pain lances up your arm as you realize you'd landed on your side. You turn over to take the pressure of your body weight off of it, rolling on to your back. Through the hole, you see Oscar, and for the first time, you have no doubt in your mind that you locked eyes with the man. The two of you hold each other's gaze for a few fleeting seconds until his head snaps up and he disappears from sight. You hear the demon's enormous club hit the roof, and a few bricks around the opening of the hole come loose, landing on the ground around you. Relief floods you when you can make out the sounds of Oscar's armor as he runs. His footfalls fade, and the demon's follow suit.

For a few minutes, you close your eyes and breathe, thinking of a way to regroup with your friend and second-time savior. With the quiet, your heart relaxes and much of the adrenaline wears off. You're able to think clearly, and with that clarity, you realize the shape of the object he'd given you before he shoved you down into the cell. It's a key. _Most likely the asylum's master key_, you think. _So my rescue doesn't turn into a simple relocation._

With a grunt, you sit up, your eyes adjusting to the darkness. When they do, they meet a pair of glowing green ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine MC's pseudonym having emphasis on the second syllable, being pronounced "cah-RIL," not Carol. But you can read it whichever/whatever way you like. (I guess it _should_ be more like "care-ill" though, since that's how they say it in Bloodborne...)
> 
> Maybe this would've done better tacked onto the prologue instead of being chapter 1. Please comment mistakes. I write in a .txt editor, so auto-correct? Who's she?


	3. Searching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MC deals with a broken arm, and the new face is equal parts intrigued and annoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're changing the tags with this one, team. Let it be known: prior to posting, the fic did not have archive warnings and was rated G.
> 
> I honestly don't think it's necessary to change them, but just to be safe, we will, I guess.

You don't jump to your feet, but scramble backwards until your back hits the bars of the cell door. The emerald eyes are still focused on yours. "You look quite pathetic doing that one-handed."

The voice is deep and languid, each word well enunciated. Either the voice itself or the fact it spoke words relaxes you. Whichever it is, you feel a great deal more calm despite being in the presence of a complete stranger. You clear your throat, your own voice less raspy than before, in part due to the swig of estus Oscar had given you. "You're not hollow."

There's a scoff and the voice sounds offended almost, "Of course not. As if I would fall to such a _human_ disease." With that short indignant bout, the vibrant eyes lean forward into the stream of light coming from the hole in the ceiling. His skin is pale, contrasting his dark hair that falls just past his shoulders. There's something inherently divine about his beauty, every angle of his face seems intentional. You would think him a carving commissioned by the gods themselves. His clothing appears to be leather of some kind, black with accents of deep green and gold. The gold catches some of the sunlight, casting flecks of yellow around the cell. He takes a breath and leans back against the wall, crossing his arms. "I wasn't aware I'd be sharing my room."

Silence sets in. When it's clear he doesn't intend on speaking anymore, you get up. Your right arm hangs lamely at your side, sending aching jolts of pain through you when you move too quickly, while you use your left hand to fit the key into the lock. With a shriek from the iron hinges, the door swings open. You hear shuffling behind you and whip around, reaching out with your left hand. Your palm meets the man's chest and glows a warning hue of faint orange. He's tall— taller than Oscar, maybe, but absolutely taller than you. The black-clad man glances at your hand, then to your face, and steps back, raising his hands slightly. 

"If you expected me to stay put while you handed me my freedom, you're sorely mistaken. But I mean you no harm," he says. Somehow, he doesn't seem any less menacing, but you pull the heat from your hand back to your center and hold your broken arm. 

Stepping aside, you nod for him to exit the cell first. Regardless of what he means, you know that him following behind you would only add to your anxiety. He does so, taking long strides into the corridor, and you see something regal in the way he walks. _The curse has reached nobility then... How many more people will be sent to the Undead Asylum?_

Immediately, you notice the stench. The right wall of the corridor houses a window lined with more bars. On the other side of the barrier is another demon, not unlike the one you and Oscar encountered on the roof. You don't remember that one smelling this wretched. The hall is filled with the scent of rotting flesh, mold, urine, and feces. The air is extremely humid, feeling so thick in your lungs, you're afraid you might choke on it. The disgusting creature slowly paces in its room on the other side of the wall. For a moment, it looks at you and the tall man, but doesn't seem interested in whatever it is you may be doing, and looks away to continue its pacing.

You quicken your steps to catch up with the man you'd inadvertently set free, though you still stay a few feet behind as the hall is too narrow to walk side-by-side. The two of you come across other undead prisoners who've hollowed beyond the point of return. Some are sitting on the floor, head in their hands, muttering incoherently. There are a few on their feet, some clawing at the walls, some at themselves. All of them have dried, leathery-looking skin pulled taut over their bodies. Their eyes are barely visible in the darkness of their sockets, and some don't even have noses. You shiver at the thought that this could have been your fate, had Oscar not come to your aid. You would've been left alone in the dark of your cell, to wither away until you died a mental death. "Disgusting creatures," are the only words to leave your company's lips, and in your mind, you agree.

_Pitiful creatures._

After many turns and many more corridors— one of which was flooded with what you hoped was water— you arrive at the courtyard with wet boots. You walk past the man and towards the [bonfire](https://darksouls.wiki.fextralife.com/file/Dark-Souls/Bonfire_Header_2.jpg). What you thought were logs and bits of wood were actually bones, and through the stack of skeletal remains was a twisted sword that resembled a fire poker. You wrap your hand around the hilt and pull, but it doesn't move in the slightest. Not even the bones shift. With a sigh, you let yourself sit in front of the flames, and the man stands beside you. "Are you tired already?" He asks, bored. "Do you not wish to leave this god-forsaken purgatory?"

_I wish to find my friend first_, you mean to say, but the words don't leave your mouth. Something resonated within you, and you feel the fire at your center connect to the one in front of you. The heat in your chest surges to a blaze. You haven't felt so right in such a long time. But the flames inside you move on their own, forcing themselves into your right arm. You expect a column of fire to shoot from your palm with the pressure you feel building, but it doesn't come. What does come is pain.

You fall backwards before curling up on your side. The man is saying something, but you hear him as if you're underwater. Gritting your teeth does little to suppress the cries that rip from your vocal cords. You feel the bones in your right arm moving, their jagged ends from the initial break tearing your flesh inside, bits of meat caught between them being pinched and crushed as the fire in you forces your bones to reconnect and fuse back together.

As suddenly as the mending started, it stops; the pain is washed away by waves of warmth. You can't tell if they're from the bonfire or inside of you.

"How peculiar..." the man says softly. He's kneeling beside you, running a light touch from your shoulder to your wrist. Then he grips your bicep. You shut your eyes and flinch, but nothing happens. You sit up and flex your arm, and it feels... just fine. "Incredible..." he breathes. He turns away, reaching towards the bonfire in the same way one might approach a feral animal. A thin wisp of smoke carrying dots of glowing embers branches from the rest and flows to his hand, curling around it for a moment before changing directions and entering his chest. His eyes widen, then narrow as a smirk creeps onto his face.

He stands, seeming to forget about you entirely, and makes his way to the large double doors that lead into the building— the one with the window through which you saw the first demon. You look up from where you're sitting, but can't see whether the demon's resumed its position there from this angle.

The man has his hands folded behind his back, and for an instant, you see them crackle with green energy. The giant doors open and he walks through, not even slowing in his stride. You're hesitant to leave the bonfire, and begrudgingly get to your feet. Once you've taken a few steps towards the doors, you feel something in you snap as your center's connection with the bonfire severs.

The inside of the building is just as massive as you would have imagined, especially since it wasn't divided up into different rooms. All of the space's volume was dedicated to one large chamber. You half jog, half walk to catch up to him. On the opposite end of the room is another set of double doors. Again, you see the verdant spark in his hands, but nothing happens this time. He stops, and you look up to see the scowl on his face. "They're locked," he states simply, but he resumes walking towards them. You don't notice the thundering steps on the roof until it's too late. _It's back_, you realize, terror wrapping its claws around your heart.

The pounding overhead gets closer, louder, faster— masses of brick and mortar crashing as the gap in the roof grows. You blanch, but steel yourself and funnel flame to both palms. The shadow of the beast looms over you from above, and you take a few steps backwards, trying to get a better look at the damn thing. Again, the opportunity to stand your ground is wrenched away.

The man grabs your arm and pulls you to a normal sized doorway with a metal gate in the side of the room that you hadn't noticed before. Once you've passed through, he turns and pulls the gate down. You didn't think he used a lot of force, but the gate slams into the ground, embedding itself in slots in the floor. Half a second later, the demon crashes to the ground, cracking the floor. It feels as though it's shaken the very foundation of the asylum. It turns its horned head to look at the two of you behind the gate, saliva dripping through its protruding teeth. Its eyes are small for its size, but you know it can see you with crystal clarity. Thankfully, it doesn't approach. 

Your noble company gives an experimental pull upwards, lacing his long fingers through the bars. It doesn't budge. Back in the narrow corridors that have become a trademark of the asylum, you and him have no choice but to push deeper into the maze of stone and metal. You hear him take steps away from where you're standing, still looking at the monster, which has turned its attention elsewhere for the time being. You only heard four steps total, but you're sure that, with his legs, he's very well near ten feet away. You're confused when he stops, not expecting him to wait for you.

But he is. His tone is mildly irritated.

"Do you plan on leaving any time soon?"


	4. Resting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MC finds Oscar.

You pass through more confounding hallways, each nearly identical to the last. There are a great deal more hollowed undead in this section of the asylum, yet some have some semblance of wit about them. Their gaze lingers on your duo much longer than those you encountered previously. Nearly all of them have both eyes remaining in their heads, and you're certain the rest have at least one left. Their passive behavior changes when you and the man round a corner. 

While not necessarily violent or malicious, you can't help but feel incredibly threatened when a few reach out and actually touch you. They pull away shortly after contact, but continue slowly resting their hands on your shoulders and head. One even feels down your forearm, stopping at your wrist. At that, you take to keeping your hands clasped in front of you, doing your best to shrink away from their wandering fingers. The situation gets exponentially worse when the man ahead of you steps through a well-lit doorway. The floor of the next hall ramps upwards, a gentle incline leading to the second floor.

It was easy to grow accustomed to the dingy state of disrepair the asylum had fallen into. The several holes in the roofing spoke volumes, but this corridor is a notch above the rest, and you found it in yourself to cherish it. There was no ceiling overhead. If you looked above while walking up the sloped passage, it felt as though you were walking right into the boundless blue of the sky, with not a cloud in sight to catch you. The idea of falling up puts a strange feeling in your stomach.

You nearly walk into the man.

He's stopped your ascent roughly one-third of the way through the sky-lit corridor. Peeking out from behind him, you see a hollow ahead with a bow in its grasp, a quiver slung lazily over its shoulder. It nocks an arrow, draws it back, and fires. You and the man press yourselves up against walls opposite each other. He advances while the hollow reaches back, groping for an arrow, but it has no time. It settles for turning and running, dropping its weapons, and the man continues chase, disappearing after it. You have to sprint to keep up, cursing him and his long legs. Once you've turned the corner as well, your eyes find the man just in time to see him push the hollow to a wall and press his left forearm against its throat. With a shimmer of green, a silver dagger appears in his right hand. 

Before you can even think of a way to stop him, the blade sinks deep into the leathery skin of the hollow's chest. It's dragged far, splitting it open down to its stomach, and you're frozen in place. All you can hear is the snapping of tendons and cracking of ribs. A putrid smell leaks from the corpse and thick, almost congealed blood oozes from the tear. Innards threaten to spill from the fresh cavity, but the man drops the hollow before they do, flicking his wrist and whisking blood off of the dagger. It vanishes with the glow that summoned it and he turns to you, but you can't pull your eyes away from the slowly leaking cadaver at your feet.

Of course you know that the "human" he killed was human no longer. At the same time, you also know that when it ran, it was very much afraid. _They're mindless_, you tell yourself. _Self-preservation is a primitive instinct. That's all._

The man purses his lips before he speaks, "That... It wasn't a person—"

"I understand." You step over the body and walk ahead of him, barely whispering, "... But it once was."

The truth was hard to accept at first. You've always believed that it was life itself that held inherent value, and for the most part, you were quick to defend anyone on the sole basis of them simply being alive. By now, you've come to understand that humanity is what gives life value. One's identity, memories, ideals— all that made someone who they were— is what gives their life value. It's what gives you value. And it can easily slip away without you noticing. The next hall has a roof over it, and in the dimly lit space, you hold a hand to your sternum, just below the space between your collarbones, wondering how long you have until you lose yourself.

You pass several cells, most of which are empty, while your partner trails close behind. Through the small, barred window of one of the cell doors, a light catches your eye, standing out amongst the rusted iron of the asylum. Looking through the window, your blood runs cold. "Oscar," your voice wavers.

[He's inside](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/darksouls/images/7/77/Oscar.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20120424033024), lying on a pile of rubble that you quickly realize to be pieces of the ceiling. The warm twilight sun trickles onto him from above, the steel of his armor glinting. You hurry forward and wrap your fingers around the bars for a moment. When you remember the key he'd given you, you quickly shove your shaking hand into one of your small bags. The key is the only thing inside, and you grip it tightly, yanking it out and practically stabbing it into the lock. With a twist, the latch comes undone and the door opens with a scream of its old hinges and clangs against the wall. At the noise, Oscar turns his head towards you, and you hear his labored breathing inside of his helmet.

"Caryll... you.. you're—" He stops himself when he notices the man behind you, then chuckles lightly. "You... Thank goodness..." Oscar leans his head back for a moment, and his helmet suddenly disappears with a wave of soft green light. You look back over your shoulder, but the man is focused on Oscar, who, upon feeling light on his face, looks back at the two of you and opens his eyes.

You're met with a warm shade of brown. His honey-colored hair is only a few inches long, and in its state of disarray, sits in a tousled mop on his head. You slowly move your gaze down his body, taking in the brutal dents in his armor and imagining the bruises and breaks that must lie underneath. His coat is stained with a deep crimson. His next words voice your fears.

"I'm done for, I'm afraid," he says with a smile on his lips. "I'll die soon, then lose my sanity... You understand this, don't you? We're both Undead."

You nod and he takes a deep breath before looking to the tall man, who still stands a ways behind you, arms crossed. "Hear me out, will you?"

The man nods and Oscar continues: "Regrettably, I've failed in my mission, but perhaps you can keep the torch lit... There's an old saying in my family." He clears his throat. " 'Thou who art Undead, art chosen. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords... When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know.' "

You hear the man scoff while Oscar breaks into a grin, and despite the blood on his teeth, it's genuine. "Pretentious, isn't it? An illusion of grandeur, I know, but I believe it... I do... And I can die with hope in my heart... One more thing, dear," he swallows. "My estus flask. Take it." You gingerly remove the matte emerald bottle from his belt, the emptiness of it hammering guilt into your heart.

Every breath Oscar takes is punctuated by the sound of faint gargling in his throat, and you can't help but imagine how much pain he must be feeling— the sensation of his own blood flowing into his lungs. You take one of his hands into your own and he still manages to keep a jovial look to his eyes. His grip slightly tightens, "Now I must bid farewell... I would hate to harm you after death, so go now... And thank you."

Still, you stay beside him for some time. When the man finally rests a hand on your shoulder and tells you it's time to go, you look at Oscar's face one last time. If you can bring yourself to overlook the lack of color in his cheeks— if you can convince yourself to hear gentle breathing— it's as though he's merely resting. "Now, little witch," the man insists. "Before he returns."

Wordlessly, you stand and step back. _Because when he does, he will without his humanity._


	5. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MC's legs **aren't** broken.

The walk from the cell is slow. The subsequent corridors inhabited by a few hollows just as hostile as the bowman from earlier. After cutting down one or two, the man hands you something. At first, you take hold without thinking, but when the weight of the object registers in your mind, you look down.

In your hand is Oscar's sword— the hilt, at least. There's a jagged break some inches up from the guard, but the bit of blade that _is_ attached is still sharp.

"Should one of these creatures get past me," the man says, "I hope you're capable of defending yourself for the few seconds it would take for me to turn around. Save your casting for a foe worth your energy, little witch."

At that, you stop. "My name is—"

" 'Caryll' is what he called you, I know."

"Oh," you say softly. You might've only mouthed it, you're not sure. "Well. What's your name?"

It's his turn to stop. He looks you in the eye, incredulous. "My name?"

"Y... yes? You've never told me."

"And why should I need to tell you?"

You frown, even more confused. "Because I'd rather refer to you by name instead of—"

"Instead of what? Your majesty? Your _prince_?" Rage flashes in his eyes, and in your peripheral, you see dim tendrils of green snaking from his wrist and coiling around his dagger.

"I don't _know_ you!" You say, a great deal louder than you intended.

You see the tendrils fade and the storm in his eyes calm. His shoulders relax slightly, and he lets out a sigh, returning to his normal, haughty posture. When he speaks, his voice is void of anger, though the hostility is still very present. "Where are you from, human?"

"Vinheim," you answer warily, brow furrowing.

He leans forward a bit, almost as if he's searching for something in your eyes. "The academy, I take it."

For a brief second, your mind takes you back to the day in the yard, and you unconsciously bring your hand to your chest. "Approximately."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Interesting." Then, he turns and resumes his stride through the corridor. He calls, without sparing you a glance, "My name is Loki."

You nod slightly, though he can't see it, and hurry after him.

A set of stairs brought you one floor higher, and more twists and turns brought you to a balcony overlooking the interior of the cathedral.

From here, you smell the demon before you see it— hear its hot breaths from somewhere beneath where you and Loki stand. You lean forward to look over the edge, and you're only able to catch a glimpse of its hulking form when Loki pulls you back by the shoulder. The two of you drop to a crouch on the balcony. "Now wait just a moment, little witch. I don't want the beast seeing you just yet."

From below you comes the grinding of stone as the demon adjusts its footing. You imagine the sound must have come from its mace scraping the floor— or maybe its own feet. You turn your head to look at him. "What _do_ you want?"

The question is met by a boyish smirk from him. "For now, your trust," he says, taking one of your hands into both of his own. "I'm going to wait here with you for a about a minute or so. Do stay quiet."

"Are we going to wait for it to leave?"

"We are going to wait for it to be led, little witch." The pressure of his hand on your shoulder vanishes— you glance down at your hand still being held in his— and he adds, "For a Vinheim magician, you aren't very imaginative. I hope that's all you're lacking."

"Wha—"

He shushes you and puts a finger to your lips, turning his head slightly. You listen, too, though you're unsure for what exactly. The asylum demon shifts once more, and past its breaths and the scrapes of its mace, you hear it. The noise is too soft to call a clanging as it's more like a dull rattle, but it's metallic, for sure. At this discovery, you look to Loki, who nods once in confirmation.

Exhaling, you whisper, "What is that?"

"Keys." His hands return to yours, and a pulse of energy sends chilling waves through you. You can see hints of the faintest green glow trace your body, working its way down your legs. The cold settles in your feet, and you frown.

"What was that?"

"When I come in, you'll have a chance to jump."

"_Jump?_ From here?"

A fraction of the mirth in his eyes dissolves and he sighs, "Yes, little witch, from here. From _here_..." He nudges you, coaxing you to look over the edge at the all-too-solid ground below, "... to _there_."

You sit back, searching his expression for something— anything— but he seems completely serious. He manages to interrupt you before you begin speaking: "I'm certain the school does teach its students how to fall properly."

Breath hitches in your throat. "Yes... Yes, but—"

"Grand. Look now."

The set of towering doors leading to the bonfire on the opposite end of the cathedral slowly creak open and, to your extended confusion, Loki walks in. You look back over your shoulder in time to catch the fading remnants of a smirk before he— the one on the balcony with you— dissolves into green fog and vanishes.

A scraping of stone and metal reaches your senses, and you turn your attention back to the lower floor. The demon has its massive club slung over one shoulder as it advances slowly, deliberately, towards the Loki who'd just entered. He throws you an expectant look, manifesting a dagger in each hand.

You clench your jaw and swing your legs over the edge of the balcony. Green, misty tendrils evaporate from someplace inside your legs and wrap themselves around your calves. The gesture seems soothing, reassuring almost, until they constrict and you're yanked down from the balcony. You can only manage to let out a pathetic yelp before your feet hit the floor and the tendrils disappear entirely. Oddly enough, the only pain you feel is in your hands when you lose balance and collapse onto your knees.

At your half-scream, the demon had turned to focus on you. Its mace crashes into the stone floor not two yards away, the force of the blow reverberating through your body. Your heart feels as though it's colliding against your ribs, but you focus on the pool of heat at your center. The monster lifts its great mace and pulls back again while you funnel molten energy into your hands. Releasing some mix of a shriek and roar, it swings downwards.

The force of the flames that leave your palms meets the giant mace, and though it doesn't completely stop the weapon from coming down, it's enough to shift it some few feet to your left. Again, the mace hits the floor, this time cracking the stone tile under your feet.

You take that moment to dash around to the back of the creature, passing Loki, who sprints forward and slashes. He cuts deeply into the back of one of its feet and backs away, and you consider whether the monster even _has_ an Achilles tendon to be severed in the first place. You get your answer when it turns around, lumbering towards the two of you with a limp, its right foot dragging behind it.

You almost see double when it roars again, louder than you've ever heard it. Your deflecting of the mace had melted it slightly, making it look more deformed and grotesque than it had originally. A few globules of liquid metal dripped onto the arms of the beast, some onto the ground, but it seems more irritated than wounded.

"What was your i-... idea... exactly?" You pant, not taking your eyes off of the demon.

"Killing it." He doesn't even sound tired. "I thought it was obvious."

"And I thought... you wanted its keys..."

The two of you are backing away, the demon struggling but absolutely keeping up with its limp.

"You are _entirely correct_, I must've forgotten," he looks at you, voice dripping with honey but eyes pooling with venom, and tilts his head towards the demon. "Retrieve them for me. Ask nicely, perhaps."

You reach the wall much sooner than you had expected, and the demon is holding its mace straight over your heads, its arms in the air. When it thrusts downwards, Loki ducks out of the way to his left, and you to your right.

You're beside the monstrosity now. It turns slightly to swing at Loki, whose daggers leave two deep wounds in its thigh. You take this time to draw every bit of heat as you can from your center. Your chest aches, your rib cage feeling as though it's about to implode from the sudden vacuum. The energy is split, and you run it down both arms. Fire surges from your hands, reaching out and enveloping the demon's left leg. It collapses onto its stomach, its mace thundering onto the floor away from it. Through the intense brilliance of your flames, you can see ribbons of flesh being burned away. You fall to your knees as well. Once your pyromancy stops spewing from your hands, all that's left are remnants of charred bone.

Before it can push itself up, Loki is at its head, its neck well within his reach. He drives a dagger into the side of its throat and yanks it to the other side, crimson spraying, then flowing steadily. Its head lolls forward, its great horns clacking against the stone. Blood pools at Loki's feet, and he steps back, an expression of distaste gracing his features. 

Condescension suits him.

The agonizing pain in your chest makes you sink the rest of the way to the ground. _It's done_, you think as black creeps in from your peripheral, the room around you disappearing.


	6. Hurting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MC sees open wounds, and does nothing.

You stir as your body meets a surprisingly warm stone floor. _Strange_. You remember lying on the ground already, but here you are being lowered gently onto it. The pressure behind your knees and against your back becomes noticeable only as it pulls away. Trying to open your eyes rewards you with blinding white-yellow light and causes the space behind your eyes to pulse and burn. You squeeze them shut impulsively, letting your eyelids relax after a few moments, and slip into a comfortable blackness.

When you awake the second time, you notice a few things. First, that you're back at the bonfire located outside the entrance of the chamber where you fought the demon-- the one you'd seen from the roof with Oscar. Next, the crushing vacuum in your chest that put you down some time ago has vanished. You credit the crackling, otherworldly flame for this.

And finally, the brilliant green eyes of Loki, who's seated on the opposite side of the bonfire. Internally, you wonder at his verdant irises, their vibrance so much so that, even before the flickering oranges and reds, they clearly resemble precious emeralds. He stares at you while holding the flask out in front of him. You catch tendrils of the bonfire coiling into the rim of the bottle, and realize that the Estus within is some liquefied form of the flames. The coolness on your tongue the first time you drank it comes to mind.

"You didn't seem injured during our little scuffle with the beast..." Loki muses, still fixated on you. "And if you did manage to break another bone, the fire didn't reduce you to a shrieking child while healing you. But that can't be it... If it was, I'd be impressed with you. I'm not."

You sit up, ignoring his biting comments. "Pyromancy doesn't come as easily as it used to, I suppose."

"You're mumbling, Caryll."

"I know you heard me..." you grumble, picking at a crack in the stone tile you're sitting on. "I assume my... extensive stay at the asylum put me out of shape. I'm simply out of practice, is all."

He purses his lips and is silent for a moment. Then he shakes his head: "No."

"No?"

"What else?"

His question throws you off. "What do you mean 'what else?' There's nothing else."

"You're wrong."

"Then why are you asking me for an answer you already know!?" You hadn't meant to raise your voice, but you're quickly becoming agitated.

He, on the other hand, continues his calm intonation, saying, "I wished to find out how much _you_ understand about your situation." Apparently, not much."

The urge to sear off those smirking lips of his comes and goes, but you're entertained by the thought. Loki looks at you expectantly, but you refuse to speak. He sighs dramatically, feigning a deep disappointment, and goes on in a patronizing voice, "Unlike sorcery, pyromancy draws from the subjective energy of one's _humanity_\-- their character, will, being-- rather then the objective and more reliable energy of their soul. The force of their life itself."

You bristle at his tone, recalling the pretentious and haughty professors of the Vinheim Academy. "I'm not ignorant."

"Oh? Then do tell, how does our _affliction_ work?" He sits back and replaces the stopper in the now-filled Estus flask.

The Undead Curse. You frown. "We don't die," you state simply.

"Wrong."

"We can't die."

"Incorrect. We assuredly can. Your knight friend did." You groan, thinking of a way to further specify, when Loki adds, "Have you died?"

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"Wha... Of course no--"

"To feel your consciousness slip out of your body." He sounds mischievously playful, almost coercive, but his eyes hold no mirth while he stares at nothing in particular. "To melt into the Abyss. To be reclaimed by the same fire that repairs you. Only for it to bend to your will to live and spit you back out. A will that most aren't even aware they possess."

Loki pauses, then continues, "The state of Undeath is the product of an excessive and _audacious_ will to live... of a horrifyingly defiant humanity. It's quite disgusting, really. Shameful, too. The mark of a criminal of nature. The unshakable mantle of a tyrant for indefinite lifetimes. A monster, for wishing to stay alive, deserving as much respect as a puddle of festering discharge."

Suddenly, it clicks in your mind: the obsessive way he attacks the human condition, his abhorrence for the Hollows wandering the halls. His hatred for Undead humans isn't exclusive of himself. Your heart aches for him and the mountain of self-loathing he bared to you in his rambling, yet you remain silent. It's a mystery as to whether offering your support will offend him. Foremost, though, you wouldn't know how to go about relieving his burden. Even if he were to have a sudden change of heart and beg you to save him, where would you begin? What could you possibly do?

A silence settles over the two of you, each lost in your own thoughts. When he speaks again, you detect an odd vulnerability in his voice. Perhaps it's because he's fully aware of how much of his grief he's exposed. _How much does he think I saw of him?_

"Are you feeling well?"

You roll your shoulders and stretch your legs. "Well enough, yes." It's difficult to resist adding: _Are you?_ But you manage.

"Good," Loki gets to his feet, tossing the flask onto your lap before holding his hands behind his back. "We've wasted enough time here."

Using his signature green sorcery, your regal companion moves the demonic warden's key into the lock of the door opposite the large chamber's entrance. More virescent, dimly lit mist snakes from Loki to the towering set of double doors, suffusing into the rusted surface of the iron. After a few seconds, they begin to open outwards. Loki frowns, his brow twitching at the loudest metallic screech you've heard since your arrival at this prison. _The sound must irritate him immensely_, you think, watching him recall his magic as soon as the doors are open enough to comfortably pass through.

Outside is a short, winding incline ending in, to your despair, a jagged cliffside.

Loki is unbothered. He nods to himself, "Yes... I do believe he can see us from here."

"Who?" You inch towards the edge, looking down. There's nothing but the mile, at least, of distance between you and the ground below. "I don't see anyone..."

"I didn't say you could." He meets your glower with another wicked upturning of his lips. "Take me home, Heimdall."

And then you're falling. A myriad of bright colors race past you while your body careens through empty space. It feels as though the light itself is pushing you several directions at once, not unlike a paper kite caught up in a cyclone. Despite this, you know that your path is linear. It's also fleeting.

You watch a speck at the end of the light tunnel grow and grow. It occurs to you: _That is the **ground.**_ Before you can even think to start flailing, it's beneath your feet. You fall to your knees, hyperventilating. Loki only clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair, a satisfied smile on his face. His expression melts into a deep sneer when he looks at your surroundings.

Though you're not sure what he was expecting, it's obvious that this isn't it. The area appears to be a ruin of some sort, the crumbling foundations of a building you can't imagine. Moss and lichen have already branded the stone bricks as their territory. Where you're standing may have been, to your best guess, a small courtyard of some sort. In the middle of it, another bonfire bearing the same kind of twisted poker as the one at the Northern Undead Asylum. This one, notably, sits upon a larger pile of bones.

Nearby is a large tree with branches coiling into the sky. On the opposite side, a man. One not hollow, at that. Sporting dark cropped hair and olive skin, the man wears a suit of chainmail. He sits on a rather large brick that had fallen out of the remains of a wall some time ago. At his side is a plain longsword and heater shield.

Not sensing malice in him, you cautiously ask where you are. The man opens his mouth, but Loki's voice finds your ears first: "Firelink Shrine." You quickly glance at Loki and his intense glare, then back at the seated warrior, who smiles sheepishly. Loki goes on, "I used to come her often. My home isn't 'far', per se... But this _isn't where I asked to be_."

The short-haired man chuckles, "Are there more Undead yet that seek the city of the Gods?" Now, he cackles, "Poor souls, the lot of us, eh? It's closed-off."

Loki growls, "Explain."

Unaffected, your new acquaintance does so: "The Gods've shut us all out. Sen's old fortress 's been locked up tight, an' with it, the right to _attempt_ to earn entry."

"All access is revoked entirely, then?"

"Not revoked," he tsks, "Locked up. Getting to the proving grounds in the first place 's become somethin' of a trial in and of itself. That's the key."

Impatient, Loki stalks towards the man, stopping beside you. "And how would I obtain this key?"

The man's smile becomes more resigned while his eyes are drained of their humor. His next laugh is short and dry.

"That's where it gets impossible. We're all done 'fore we get the chance to even start... Poor souls... the lot of us..."


End file.
